


Till Everything Burns

by mydogfoundthechainsaw



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Author has a lot of feels, Bucky is a lost puppy, Bucky is a mess, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nick Fury is a big softie, Sam and Steve show up eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogfoundthechainsaw/pseuds/mydogfoundthechainsaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of the Winter Soldier, the still-amnesiac former assassin now calling himself Bucky wanders around D.C., and eventually the states. With a little help, he starts going after Hydra, leading Steve and Sam around.</p><p>This may or may not be finished. i lost my flashdrive with all my stuff on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till Everything Burns

                Seeing his picture was hell. He barely remembered anything—the coding was slowly wiping away, but it wasn’t happening fast enough. Being here, he thought, would help. But it burned instead. And then reading that story? He knew he should feel something, but nothing was coming. The memories weren’t coming back. It wasn’t like he’d ever be that man again, but he wanted to know who Bucky Barnes was. He wanted to know this man who Captain America would sacrifice himself for (he’d never be worth that).

                But this museum didn’t tell him anything that wasn’t some sanitized version of his past. It didn’t tell him why Captain America (Steve, he remembered, his name was Steve) yielded during their fight or why that redheaded woman stared at him like he was her reflection or why every time he punched Captain America he felt his soul wither. The only person that could tell him that was in the hospital—because of him—and he wasn’t willing to talk to him again. Because Captain—Steve still saw him as his friend, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t that man anymore. He’d never get it back. Yet he kept staring the picture, hoping he’d get something.

                He didn’t even know why he wanted it all back. Because how could he be normal after all of this?  For the past seventy years he’d been a pawn in someone else’s master plan, and now? He knew nothing of the world he was living in and, even worse, nothing of himself. The only thing he knew was Hydra. And Hydra was still out there. They’d come for him soon; it was hard to disguise himself, and it wasn’t like he’d ever learned how. So what was he doing, standing in front of his memorial like a fucking idiot, hoping it’d tell him what to do (he needed someone to tell him what to do).

                Because for the past seventy years, he had been told what to do, he’d had a Mission. Now his mission was to survive. But he wouldn’t be able to do that here. So he walked away, feeling slightly relieved he wouldn’t have to stare at that picture anymore. He couldn’t feel anything about it and it made him feel even worse because he knew that was him and he wasn’t sure he’d ever remember anything. And he wanted it back; he wanted to know what fit in that gaping hole of his memories because it was so large and painful and he couldn’t live his life with only the Winter Soldier’s memories (he could only remember the last Mission, but still). Those memories were of pain and anger and so much goddamn loss he knew any normal person would wither and die. He wasn’t normal though. When he thought about all he’d done, it replayed in his head like a tape, black and white and lacking any emotion. Bucky’s memories were probably happy and sunshine and full of Steve because it seemed Steve meant more to him than anything. And even if he couldn’t be Bucky anymore, he thought anyone would be lucky to have memories like that because how many people made friends who believed enough in them to die for them? Even without his memories, he knew the chance of that.

                Apparently though, the program had wiped everything, leaving him with barely anything. And the world outside was loud and chaotic and every sound made him think of gunfire and war. And since the memories refused to come pouring back like a flood, he’d have to learn about this world first, figure out his next steps and where to go and how to pretend to be normal. A tinge of anger passed through him, and he realized he’d always hated pretending to be normal but nothing else came, no explanation or reason as to why he would hate being normal. Because Bucky had seemed to be normal and boring and an overall good guy. What had made him feel that way?

                And who was he now? He wasn’t the Winter Soldier anymore, he knew that much. But was he Bucky? The name sounded right in his mind and he liked it and he didn’t know what else to call himself but he wasn’t sure he deserved it. Because all he’d done had certainly erased any evidence of good in him. But James didn’t fit and Bucky did but every time he thought of Bucky he heard Steve say it, in that goddamn pathetic lost tone of voice, and why did this have to happen to him? And some part of him knew he was brainwashed but this idiotic part of him kept saying that Steve would’ve found a way out of it because Steve was stubborn like that and that part of him wasn’t helping. So he rolled the name off his tongue, experimentally, several times, finding that it sounded acceptable. He probably looked crazy, this long-haired, hooded figure muttering to himself and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself but he highly doubted a Hydra agent would come get him now.

                Why would anyone join Hydra, though? Because from his memories, they seemed like a shitty place. The order they believed in was a horrible thing but people did need something to believe in and was their belief any worse than Steve’s belief in him, or, even, his belief in Steve? Because he couldn’t remember anything about the man, but everything kept circling back to him and how could one person mean so much even when the only thing he could remember clearly about him was his name? And he had some notion that if he just went back, he’d figure everything out but there was that stupid part of him that didn’t trust anyone and didn’t want anyone’s help and he wanted to return all better. So he kept walking. He had no clue where he was going or where he had came from or how he would survive but then there was a library in front of him.

                He hadn’t been in a library forever and it was different, he realized, but it smelt the same and maybe smells were the key. Because he remembered a library, in the past, with him and Steve wandering around, trying to avoid the cold and Steve—the small version—had this stupid smile but he just felt so protective and loved and loving (they were family, brothers, lost without each other). Nothing like he did now. But it was something, something to keep him warm and keep those demons away. And he blended into the background and sat in the library, reading vivaciously, and learned about the future. It seemed like a wonderful place. It was a goddamn shame he had missed so much of it.

                Steve would be happy about because the world had gotten a little better. It’d gotten worse at the same time, but how did he know so much about the man? He couldn’t remember anything clearly but he felt like he could predict Steve’s every move and how close had they been? How could you know a person so well that one word from them could break through years of programming? That even lacking clear memories you knew their preferences?

                But that wasn’t the question now. The problem was him and Hydra and his fucking lack of memories. Because he was lacking twenty-odd years of his life that he wanted back because even if he wasn’t that guy anymore, he’d like to know about his past, rather than random feelings about Steve. Yet Hydra’s work had worked well for the past seventy years, so he wasn’t sure it’d suddenly fail. That would be too lucky, so he was stuck here, without friends or a Mission and his only survival skills were related to assassinations. And that wouldn’t be too helpful, unless he wanted to be someone’s pawn again and he didn’t want to and anyway what would happen when they realized what he could do? Because he was good. He’d always been, but whatever they’d done had made him better.

                And what exactly had they done? He had a metal arm and better reflexes and didn’t feel pain and he was like Steve after the serum. But did he need anything new? Did the metal arm need cleaning and how much more food did he have to eat and fuck how was he going to survive? Because surviving in the 1940’s was a lot different, he guessed, than surviving now. And he had no doubt he could do it, but did he want to? Because he could just crawl back to Steve and he would be fine with him and why did everything return to that man? He had bigger problems now.

                Like the fact the library was closing and he had no clue as to where he should go and still no idea what he should do with his life. Eventually someone was going to realize who he was, or had been, and eventually Hydra would find him—and why hadn’t they already because he was their best asset and he should have a tracking device and what if they were waiting until he was vulnerable so they could take him in—and maybe that’s what he should do. Maybe he should look for Hydra, smoke them out with false promises and hope and then betray him like he’d done Steve (would he ever get over that face).

                It wouldn’t be that hard—they’d invested a lot in him and would certainly want it all back—but who’s to say they wouldn’t outsmart him. Because he didn’t know anything except killing right now and what if he remembered something at an inopportune moment and goddamn their fucking mindwipes because he had no clue how to find them anyway. And it was a really great idea and it might make him feel better but Steve would be mad because “revenge begets revenge,” or something. How did he remember that but still wasn’t sure about his name? But it wasn’t like his name would matter—he hadn’t talked in ages and no one was around anyway.

                Apparently, in the middle of the night, D.C. was asleep. Yes, there were cars around, but he was the only one wandering the streets. He wasn’t trying to be romantic, but being outside, seeing the city calm, felt good—he didn’t have a Mission and there was no one to yell at him and if he never slept again it would be okay, just to have this feeling. But then there was screaming, not loud, but loud enough for his senses, and it was broken and he wasn’t sure what to do. Because the screaming was a ways away and he was trying to fix himself but he needed redeeming and now was a good a time as any to start.

                So he started running, enjoying how powerful and fast he was—he didn’t think the Mission had ever let him do that—and there were these three guys, stripping down this woman inside of an alley. She was crouched, breath coming fast, face bloody, and eyes closed, and they were puling at her hair, commenting lewdly. And he was seeing red and he wanted it over painlessly because more deaths wouldn’t save his soul (like it could be saved). It took him a little longer than it should have. But then they were unconscious on the ground. The woman was looking at him with amazement and gratitude and just a little fear. It’d been a while since he’d talked but he definitely needed to reassure her, so he broke his silence. “You okay ma’am?”

                His voice was scratchy and broken and where exactly had “ma’am” come from? “I can stay until the police come, if you would like.” And she nodded quickly, shakily, as she dialed for them. He stood there silently as she collected herself. When she was done, her eyes were a rich chocolate staring at him with gratitude. “Thanks. For that. I don’t know what—why—oh my god. Oh my god. Thank you. Thank you so much. I owe you. So goddamn much. I’m...I’m—“

                “I’m just happy to help, ma’am,” he said, interrupting her. “Just be safe but don’t—it wasn’t your fault, okay? Just try to remember that.” And he still didn’t know where this politeness was coming from or if that was the right thing to say and who he was actually talking to—did he really believe any of this bullshit he was spouting—but the police were coming and he really couldn’t get caught. So he faded into the shadows and made his escape.

                He spent the rest of the night wandering, enjoying the crisp air and reconfiguring everything he knew to fit with this wondrous future. It was beautiful and loud and everything and nothing he’d hoped it would be. The night ended with him watching the sunrise from the steps of the Lincoln memorial; it was touristy and stupid and a waste of his time, but the Winter Soldier had never enjoyed sunsets. So why shouldn’t he, whoever he was now? People were beginning to mingle about and he still had no idea where to go. Yet his feet to him to the Smithsonian again, and he explored the rest of the exhibits, feeling slightly guilty he was wasting time on idiotic things like sunsets and museums and reading books in the library and stupid for not remembering anything inside. Winter Soldier, apparently, had not needed to know any sort of history and wasn’t it weird he was thinking of himself like that? As if his life was divided into three periods—Bucky, Winter Soldier, and now—because it’d been a day since he’d broken free of Hydra and every time there was a loud bang he thought of gunfire and he kept having these urges to chase after Steve. Remnants of his programming—finish the Mission—and maybe that was why he wanted to get Steve; maybe he just wanted to kill him, not talk. But he couldn’t tell what his emotions were anymore; he wasn’t sure if he had any because all he’d felt lately was this urge to kill and now that was turning into an urge to protect everything. Which really didn’t make sense. Maybe this was the leftover of Bucky, maybe just enough of their work had been erased to leave him with this fucking desire to do the right thing.

                But he wasn’t sure that urge was strong enough to fight everything else off. Because he’d been lost for seventy years, and what would twenty-odd years of goodness do against that (nothing and everything because he’d spent those years with Steve, who was so goddamn good it burned him it think about it). Yet he’d been fine, until now, until he let those stupid thoughts crowd into his brain and what if other thoughts, those Hydra thoughts, found their way inside and all these people would die and what would he do then because then it would confirmed—he was theirs. And he couldn’t be theirs, he wanted to be him, whoever that was, some twisted version of Bucky who’d survived certain death for a death of another kind. Now he had a chance at life, after he figured out who he was, and how could he throw that away by thinking things like that (Steve never would) and he needed to stop focusing on that man or else he’d lose it. But there was lunch to worry about, at least—it was his fourth meal of the day and luckily he’d learned, somewhere, how to steal and survive. He’d need to learn more, like credit cards and fake identities and where he should shave so he could blend in because apparently he looked more like a homeless man than necessary. Even though he was (homeless and lost and so goddamn confused).

                He found a newspaper as he ate, which was emblazoned with headlines about Steve’s actions. It was bright and attention-grabbing but lacking facts—for one, he wasn’t mentioned. But Steve’s partner, the black one with the wings of metal, was—Sam Wilson. The redheaded woman was mentioned too—a spy who’d worked for the Soviets and now S.H.I.E.L.D. There was a dearth of information about them on the web, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to go there (who knows what else might be up there about him). Steve was in the hospital with injuries that would’ve, if dispersed, killed several men. And he kinda wanted to visit but what if that was just what the programing wanted and anyway, he wanted to do this by himself (would he be worth anything if he didn’t) and he wasn’t too sure if he could look at that face, beautifully and perfectly broken by his hands.

                But he felt guilty being a tourist and he didn’t have any plans of how to destroy Hydra, so what were his options? Survival. Figuring out how this amazing future worked. Because he needed to learn how to steal more effectively and how to blend in better and how people did things now. And he’d really liked that library. Winter Soldier hadn’t liked libraries, and he was pretty sure old Bucky hadn’t liked them—they reminded him of escaping the cold and how poor he was—but he did now. The library had all sorts of things about the future because whatever the Winter Soldier had needed to know about the future, he had forgotten.

                No other memories came when he walked in, though, but remembering his insight, he resolved to go visit Brooklyn after he’d figured something out—it might smell the same still. Of course, he had to figure things out first. So he read everything he could about computers and credit cards and how things operated in the future. In the now, really. He had to stop thinking like that (he wasn’t three people living in one body). It wasn’t healthy. He was here, now, with a past of shining gold and tarnished silver and he’d never been perfect, anyway, he knew that much. Steve was the one for that department. After he’d exhausted the source of books—he could read faster now, his brain processing things at lightning-quick speed—he decided to venture into technology.

                The computer stared, infuriatingly unhelpful, at him, when he sat down—apparently some things hadn’t left him and thank god for librarians who had a sweet spot for long-haired, suspiciously dressed former assassins. Stupidly, he’d assured her he didn’t need her help—damn his fucking pride—and the computer seemed to realize this. But then there was this old lady next to him, poking him in the shoulder, and he almost took her head off but slowed his arm down quick enough to make it look like a stretch. Apparently he looked like Bucky Barnes—“the one with Captain America, you’re probably too young to remember”—but she had just learned all of this “nonsense” and why shouldn’t she help a struggling young man? And computers were kind of fun once he realized how they operated and there was so much stuff on them about everything and nothing (maybe he should just look up something about himself but what if Hydra was monitoring them and did he really want to know what he’d done?).

                But he was looking for information, and information he found. He scanned pages quickly and found himself adjusting to the world of the internet easily; there were a lot of fucking crazy people on the internet (wasn’t he crazy too though). Yet  crazy, paranoid people were surprisingly helpful, although he wasn’t sure how’d he get any of the supplies necessary to make fake IDs or credit cards but now he knew how they worked and he was getting hungry already. It was near closing time, though, so it was time to wander, lost, around the streets of D.C., remorsefully looking at the carnage and destruction he’d helped wrought (it wasn’t his fault, really, was it?).

                Twenty-first century food was good, or at least anything would be better than the crap he’d gotten in the army or at Hydra. Even the pizza smelled better and suddenly he was back there. Him and skinny Steve laughing over a pizza because he’d said something stupid and Steve was choking with laughter and that was his home and as quickly as it started, it was over. But he couldn’t help but smile. Two memories weren’t a lot to go on, but they were something to start with. And he couldn’t believe Hydra had been so stupid, so overconfident because they had to know about their relationship and how could they ever believe their programming, some computer programmed loyalty could ever overcome years worth of protecting and loving and being loved by Steve because they were brothers, family, and loyalty to Steve was ingrained in his blood. Yes, it’d almost worked but Steve had known him too well and Hydra hadn’t tried to know him at all—they’d tried to remake him but some things could never be changed. The Mission might not be over yet but he knew when they met he wouldn’t, couldn’t kill Steve. Because then he might as well die too.

                And so he felt a little bit better, as he wandered around the city. But then there was the rapid, staccato sound of gunfire and he hit the floor, searching for the shooter. There were police sirens—it was far away—but then he was back there, laying on a rooftop, searching the skies. There was a Mission pounding in his head and it hurt so fucking bad because he’d screwed up and let the guy get away but he would get him, they’d asked him to and he never failed. No one could withstand him (one could, he realized, distantly, by laying down his life) and he found the man quickly and quietly and soon it was over and his brain felt okay for a minute. Because the Mission was done and he’d always loved the end of Missions because he’d always remember something. He’d never remember it on the next Mission, but there he was, with this skinny man who he felt so much towards (protective over and loved by and loving of) in an alley with bruises on his face from fighting off some bullies. After every Mission, he remembered now, he’d get flashes, quick bursts of his life with Steve, and every time they made him want to run but then the coding ran over everything and he was listening to the Mission again.

                He didn’t know when he started crying, laying crouched on the ground listening to the present and the past and all the wrongs he’d done under the hand of someone else, but it felt good. Because he hadn’t had emotions in forever and it’d been a rollercoaster lately but maybe it was time to let off some steam. It wouldn’t help, not in the long run, but for tonight, it made him feel better. He’d seen his past, both versions of it, and it was painful to realize the contrast between them. And then he realized he could never return to Steve, not until he figured out how to get the Mission out of his head. Even if he didn’t kill him—which he wouldn’t, couldn’t—the Mission might still be over and he’d be lost again. The only thing keeping him sane was the drive to find Steve and he was stronger than the Mission now because he’d gotten his senses back. The Winter Soldier hadn’t had anything except the Mission—it was his blood and his breath and his life—but Bucky had life and love and experiences and Steve that had saved him even when he didn’t know that was possible. And he was Bucky now, wasn’t he? So all the stupid experiences and touristy choices weren’t such a bad thing because they distanced him from who he used to be and if he was going to get any more of those memories, he was going to need that.

                There still wasn’t a plan or anything, but there was a goal, to experience everything so the Mission would never take over because he wasn’t sure if it was possible to get that thing out of his head. It’d been there for seventy years, so it was deeply ingrained, but Hydra had shown him that some things could be encoded over and some things couldn’t. Love couldn’t; emotions couldn’t because what was a computer to a feeling? It was powerless and confused and the Winter Soldier was nothing but a fancy computer with a metal arm and super strength and no past and it’d never be able to fight against this. Eventually, he ran out of tears and rolled over, laying on the grass looking up at the night sky. It was hard to see, cloaked with the brightness of the city, but it calmed him.

                He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but he woke with a start. There was a man, in a long, black coat walking away from him, a black man with a piece of string wrapped around his head and it was the man he’d tried to kill, he realized, the man who ran things, a good man who’d done bad things for his country. Like he had. Except he hadn’t done it for his country. He’d done it for some twisted version of safety and protection and who would actually believe that kind of stuff? And he thought about running after that man, apologizing, asking any and all of his questions, but that kind of man wouldn’t answer anything. Anyway, he wasn’t too sure he wanted answers. So he rolled over, deciding instead to figure out his day plans because his new goal was going to be hard to follow through with without money or identification or a shower. But there was a bag next to him, a black, suspicious duffle bag that the man must’ve left and why would he do such a thing unless it was a bomb but he had a feeling it was help, a godsend that he didn’t deserve (why didn’t he deserve it—it wasn’t his fault for what he’d done).

                So he opened it carefully, hoping and dreading a bomb or some other method of destruction, but found instead money and credit cards and IDs and several razors with a note to “use them please because you just look like a suspicious, albeit attractive motherfucker.” And he felt a smile come to his face because apparently he had an angel now, an angel in the package of a tall black man with an eye patch. He took the money, the cards, the IDs, but left the razors; he liked looking like suspicious and attractive—how’d the angel even figure that out—and it was a concession to the Winter Soldier. Although it was questionable, why the man would help him. Because They had said the man was a hard-ass, a self-righteous man who saw country before everything and all he’d ever done was try to destroy it and he highly doubted Steve had sanctioned this. But did it matter what Steve wanted? This was perfect to his plans, so who was he to argue, even if everything was probably full of trackers so that he could be followed so that if he ever screwed up he’d be dead. He could’ve already been dead though—he was sleeping in a park, dead to the world and easy prey—and the man hadn’t taken the bait. Although it spoke volumes how easily the man had found him. Not like he’d been hiding, but that meant Hydra probably was and why hadn’t they tried to take him in yet?

                There was no other plan, however, and with the destruction of the man’s work—that was more of Steve’s fault than his own—maybe the man lacked anyone to follow him. Maybe he was being nice, maybe he saw what Steve did, some poor, misguided soldier led around like a dog, maybe Steve had inspired him like he always seemed to do. Those were big maybes and probably not worth risking his life on but he’d always been a risk-taker, he remembered that. And there was nothing else to do, really, and looking around like a crazy man for snipers wasn’t really going to distract from his suspiciousness. He started walking, rapidly, towards the café that was always busy, hoping to get some coffee and who knew what else. Although the godsend was not really one, in a way, because now one of his major problems was solved, and his still had no goddamn idea what to do. But the coffee shop quelled his fears because it smelled so good and he was so hungry and Steve had always been like that after the serum, hadn’t he? And he had made fun of that hunger, because skinny Steve had eaten like a bird and made fun of his appetite and making fun of serum-Steve allayed his feelings of insecurity. Not that Steve would ever try to do that.

                But he started when he saw the man in the coffee shop, drinking some foam-covered drink with relish and smiling when he saw him. It felt like Them all over again, like he was being led around for the man’s benefit but had no other choice and he had a feeling this man was on a mission like his—redemption and trying to understand his place in a world that no longer understood him. Maybe if he danced to this man's tune--of tempo, of course (he'd never follow someone so closely again)--he'd get his own deliverance. So he got his drink—there were so many options in the now and how could anyone live like this—and sat down, a ways away from the man. And he drank with relish, watching the people interact and savoring every bit because this, this stupidity of experiencing everything, like a child, was his salvation. He knew the man was watching him, he could feel his smile, but he ignored him.

                Eventually, the man got up to leave and walked by him with deliberate slowness. And the man said something about how his hair wasn’t Army regulations and that he really should be more careful because Hydra could find him but that he was adjusting well. He had millions of questions, about the why he had done this and how to find Hydra and how was Steve, but he simply nodded and kept watching everyone else. The man left a slip of paper on his table—a hospital and a room, Steve’s—which he crumpled in his left hand. It wasn’t the right time to go stare at his old friend; it was the time to explore and forget and this probably wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing but he’d followed orders for too goddamn long.

                So he explored again. And there were so many things he’d never gotten to do as a poor kid from Brooklyn, but in this present, with wads of money and credit cards that, as far as he could tell, were unlimited, he had options. He felt stupid and wasteful but good at the same time, good because he was doing everything the Winter Soldier wouldn’t and that Bucky would, good because he needed a break from Missions, good because while he’d never feel perfect with everything that’d happened, it was a good distraction from the pain. Of course, he kept on the lookout now, watching for the angel in the black coat or the pin of a Hydra agent, but he found none.

                And he was slightly disappointed, because he wanted someone to destroy; he wanted the end of Hydra, because why not get rid of two birds with one stone? Why couldn’t he have experiences and eradicate Hydra? That was probably the only way to get things done, so that he wouldn’t lose himself in a Mission. Because he had this feeling that even if he made up his own Missions, if he was controlling himself, he was too easily fixated now. Whatever they’d done to him had allowed him to have singular focus on the Mission, which meant that if he started a new Mission, to end Hydra, he’d be lost to that. Even Steve might not be able to pull him out of that one, because it would have been his choice and he really didn’t want to lose himself to violence and chaos and pain (it would be so fucking easy and feel so goddamn good).

                 Of course, the big stone is his path was the fact he had no fucking clue how to find Hydra. Why couldn’t the man have given him that, instead of Steve’s room number? Unless it wasn’t Steve’s room number. Because why would he do that? Why would he risk Captain fucking America’s life to a half-sane, recently unbrainwashed former assassin who could easily finish what he’d started? The man wasn’t a fool; he had a different plan. And he wanted to run there, then and there, a dead sprint until he found what he was looking for, but he couldn’t just wander into a hospital looking half-dead and homeless. His charm would only work for so long.

                So he found himself climbing into the fourth-story window of a hotel room; he didn’t feel like dealing with people or thinking or doing anything really. The water was cool and good and he didn’t know if Winter Soldier had ever taken a shower if he just got hosed off like an animal (it was time to stop thinking of him; that wasn’t him anymore). And there were nice clothes in the closet and a pair of gloves—a woman’s, of course, but they fit—and he felt even more stupid because he looked normal (he shouldn’t get to look normal; there should’ve been something marking him of his crimes). But he tried not to think too hard; instead he started his way to the hospital—he’d passed it several times through his night-wanderings. It was ugly as sin and hard to miss.

                He examined the hospital for what seemed like hours, trying to ensure this wasn’t a trap, but every minute made him tenser. Because he wanted to know what was inside; he’d convinced himself it was all sorts of things that couldn’t be named and he wanted to know what was true. Maybe it was a Hydra agent for him to interrogate, a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent waiting to kill him, a little girl who he’d injured in his path of destruction.

                But it was none of those things. It was an empty room, a table in the middle full of records. Records of his life, of Winter Soldier’s trail through the world. And he wanted to read them but didn’t because he didn’t want to remember any of it but goddamn his curiosity for making it so difficult. He didn’t read about any of the Missions; he’d remember them eventually and he didn’t want to right now because what if he fell under again? Instead he found the files about his training and what they had done to him and where the Hydra bases might be. And apparently this new him was emotional or maybe years of not having anything were creeping up on him because he was standing in a room of his past, weeping, sobbing, about this man who’d decided he was worth helping. This man he’d tried to kill, this spy who was being too goddamn soft, but maybe Steve was right. Maybe people wanted to do the right thing and how did he even know Steve used to say that and he was just lost into sadness.

                And he didn’t want to read the files anymore, even when the tears dried up, so he shoved them in a duffel bag the man had left and he left the hospital with red, puffy eyes and he really hoped Hydra wasn’t watching because this was really pathetic. It was too nice for a man like him and maybe Hydra had gotten to him in the night and this was all in his head but they didn’t have that kind of technology. They just put a scenario in his mind, an aching that couldn’t be fixed until the Mission was over and there was no aching and maybe this was just wishful thinking but sometimes there were angels, like Steve said. Sometimes people surprised you, even master spies who’d almost died at your hands, because you had a friend who would die to make you return to yourself and that kind of confidence in you would inspire others to believe too. Because Steve was a force unto himself—he made you feel powerful and right and being around him made you want to do right. It was beautiful, to be around, to be around someone who’d was so goddamn good it made your teeth ache (and it’d always made your teeth ache; but it was a good ache, a reminder of who you could be). And who was to say he hadn’t worked his magic on this man? And he knew he was trying to convince himself of this, that there were dozens of arguments against this idea, but he knew he would win any of them. Because he had something to go on now, because someone else, someone other than Steve, thought he was worth saving.

**Author's Note:**

> So my version of what Bucky might do after CATWS. I know Fury's help is a bit of a godsend, but I'd like to think the man has a softer side, especially after losing his life's work. Sorry if Bucky's voice is a hard read, but I thought that might be what his head feels like after all it's been through. And i'll finish it eventually


End file.
